Paris
The grand hall of the Palais de la Cité was a scene of grim silence. Queen Isabeau reclined gracefully on an ornately carved wooden chair, draped in a gown of deep crimson velvet that cascaded in heavy folds around her feet, her hennin, a tall, conical headdress adorned with a delicate silk veil, framed her pale, powdered face, casting a regal shadow over her piercing eyes. The flicker of light danced off the jewels that adorned her neckline, a necklace of rubies and pearls resting against the richness of her bodice. Beside her, her son, Louis de France, Duke of Guyenne, sat on the throne, a boy in years.
Before them, three Burgundian captives knelt, their faces pale and etched with fear. Their hands were bound, their bodies trembling as they awaited judgment. The guards stood silently to the side, their faces emotionless, gripping their swords tightly.
Queen Isabeau leaned towards Louis, her voice a venomous whisper. "Show no mercy, Louis. Let them learn the price of betrayal."
Louis's expression twisted into a cold, playful smile. He leaned forward, his voice sharp and commanding. "Guards! give them swords."
The captives exchanged horrified glances as the guards stepped forward, throwing crude, blades at their feet. One of the men, his voice cracking with desperation, spoke. "Please, your grace... we are not warriors."
Louis's smile widened, his eyes glinting with amusement. "You will fight," he said, his voice cold as ice. "And whoever survives will live!"
The captives hesitated, their hands shaking as they reached for the blades. They were friends, brothers in chains, now forced to turn on each other like animals. The hall grew heavy with anticipation, the tension thick and suffocating.
"Fight!" Louis barked, his voice echoing through the hall with a cruel authority. "Or die where you kneel."
The first man, driven by sheer desperation, lunged at the nearest, his blade clashing with a deafening clang. The sound of metal against metal echoed through the hall as the three captives descended into a brutal, frenzied battle. Blood splattered across the floor as the crude swords bit into flesh, the cries of pain filling the air.
Louis watched with an unsettling calm, his eyes never leaving the carnage. His mother stood beside him, her face a mask of detached satisfaction as the captives fought for their lives, their blood staining the stone floor.
The fight was savage, desperate. Blades slashed and stabbed with wild fury, bodies collided with bone-crunching force. One man fell, his throat sliced open, gurgling as his lifeblood poured out. Another stumbled, a blade thrust deep into his gut, collapsing to the ground in a pool of crimson.
The last man standing was bloodied and gasping, his chest heaving as he dropped his sword, the terror in his eyes raw and pleading. "I... I have done as you asked. Spare me.."
The queen rose from the throne, her footsteps deliberate as she approached the survivor. She looked down at the man, her face a mask of cruel indifference. "Did you really think survival meant mercy?"
The man's eyes widened in horror, his voice shaking. "Please... I beg you—"
Before he could finish, her voice cutting through the air like a blade. "Kill him."
The survivor's scream was cut short as the executioner's sword cleaved through his neck, the severed head rolling across the blood-slicked floor. His body crumpled, lifeless. Louis sighed as he leaned, pressing his hand on his cheeks with a bored expression.
Two men, draped in dark, flowing robes, entered the grand halls of the Palais de la Cité, their footsteps reverberating softly against the stone floors. They moved with quiet purpose as they passed guards dragging bodies and exchanged quiet look. They were met by Queen Isabeau and Louis.
Louis carried the weight of his title as the third son of King Charles VI, known as Charles the Mad due to his debilitating bouts of mental illness. Though he lacked the strength of his father's presence, the young Duke's appearance was marked by the regality of his bloodline, his sharp features framed by his golden locks. With his father's fading authority in the court, the king was often absent due to his unpredictable health. In Louis' place, Isabeau had taken on the mantle of power, acting as regent and navigating the treacherous waters of a divided France.
Queen Isabeau, composed and watchful, seated herself on the ornate throne as the two men approached.
The taller man stepped forward and bowed deeply. "Your Grace, my prince," he began, his voice low and measured. "We bring word from England regarding the Welsh situation."
Queen Isabeau nodded, signaling for him to continue.
The envoy's words hung in the air with an eerie finality. "The English crown wishes to ensure that France does not involve itself in the Welsh rebellion," he explained, his eyes darting briefly toward the young Duke. "They ask that you remain neutral in this matter."
The queen's voice, calm and collected, broke the silence. "The Welsh rebellion," she said with an air of indifference, "is hardly of consequence to us now. And as for the English..." She trailed off, her eyes glimmering, "What do they offer in return for this?"
The second envoy, shorter and stockier, produced a small, intricately carved chest from beneath his robe. He stepped forward with a bow and placed it reverently before the queen. "Gifts from England, Your Grace," he said, his lips curling into a thin smile. "Tributes meant to ensure goodwill between our two realms."
Isabeau's fingers tapped rhythmically against the armrest of her chair as she surveyed the chest. A servant opened it with careful precision.
"A generous offering," she remarked, her voice smooth with appreciation.
Louis, his youthful eyes taking in the exchange, glanced at his mother with a silent understanding.
-----
Maredudd, the son of Owain Glyndŵr, stood at the crest of the hill, his gaze sweeping over the valley below. The land stretched out in rugged terrain, the jagged peaks of the mountains rising sharply behind him. His scouts, scattered in pairs among the trees, kept a sharp watch, their eyes trained on the gathering forces of the enemy.
"It seems they're marching early," Maredudd muttered under his breath, his voice steady but tinged with a hint of frustration. He adjusted his cloak, the wind whipping at his face as he peered down at the camp. He counted the soldiers carefully, his brow furrowing. "At least three thousand men, maybe more. And they're gathering supplies."
One of his scouts, a young man, turned to Maredudd. "Lord, we must head back and report this to your father," he urged, his voice laced with concern. "If they're moving so soon, they could strike before we're ready."
Maredudd's jaw clenched, his mind racing with the implications. Father had spoken of them growing their numbers slowly, waiting for the right moment. But this.....
"They're underestimating us," Maredudd replied with a hard look in his eyes.
He turned to his scouts, his voice now resolute his heart burned with determination. The coming days would be pivotal, they would fight, and they would not be broken.